“There are to me infinities
played out in the way you say my name,”
Harold said to me in traffic.
He had a hand out the window
and beat rhythmically
to music playing only for him.
There were times he held my hand
back when we were lovers,
before he was married,
before I was a trophy
he put on a shelf
and dusted off when he needed to feel the weight of his own gravity.
He is a poet who will never publish.
His words light lanterns
and curdle milk.
I was an addict for the sweet nothings
he whispered in my ear
while our house crumbled off its foundation and I would build us a new one with hands he kissed with
As we neared the airport, I felt his heartbeat thrumming in the air.
Both of his hands gripped the wheel with white knuckles.
The cars around us were hyenas
that nipped at our heels as we fled
from something he would later claim to be a mistake.
I folded down the mirror, grabbed my face wipes from the small pocket in my purse and scrubbed off
everything but my lipstick.
He loved them cherry red;
I only wore it the days I left him.
He pulled up to a flashing neon departures sign, threw it in neutral and pulled the e-brake.
“Need help with your bags?” He asked.
I shook my head.
He popped the trunk and we walked to the back.
I grabbed my only bag.
“You know I love you.” He said and kissed my palm.
I kissed his white collar
and left two red lips behind.
I kissed his cheek and played with the buttons on his shirt.
I bit his earlobe and whispered, “I told your wife.”